


You Make Me Live

by fishpoets



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Mild Smut, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Post-Season/Series 07, like an embarrassing amount of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 23:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16984128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: Sometimes good things are worth waiting for.In which Keith leaves the hospital, moves in to the Atlas, and finds his home in Shiro's heart.





	You Make Me Live

**Author's Note:**

> hello I'm new(ish) here! vld has taken over my life so I had to try and finish _something_ before season 8 drops. squeezing it in at the last minute counts, right? right!
> 
> anyway this was my first time writing these guys so i'm still getting to grips with them  
> title from Queen's You're My Best Friend bc. that's sheith right there.
> 
> i can't remember what else i wanted to say i'm sleep deprived and panicking about s8 lol. see you on other side!!

 

Shiro had forgotten how swiftly the desert air cools at twilight. He's clammy from a full day of rushing around in the heat, sweating under the layers of his uniform, and now the chill prickles on the bare skin above his collar as he guides his friend out of the hospital.

 

The doors slide shut behind them, leaving them alone with only the chirp of insects and the quiet. Keith stops and closes his eyes, tips his face to the sky, and draws in a deep, grateful inhale.

 

Shiro smiles at him. “Better?”

 

“ _Yeah.”_ The upturned corners of Keith's lips twitch higher. “Feels like the first fresh air I've had in months.”

 

Between all the time he's spent in the recycled air of the Lions, then the days hidden away in the Garrison buildings, followed swiftly by an extended stay in the sterile, enclosed space of the ward, it may as well be. Keith seems happy for now just to stand and breathe, and Shiro has no intention of hurrying him on; instead, he takes the chance to drink in the sight of him.

 

It's a relief to see Keith's skin renewed with healthy color, the hollows of his cheeks filled, his face well-rested and relaxed. His hair's grown these past few weeks, reaching down between his shoulderblades at its longest, and the evening breeze stirs the ends where they curl against the long stretch of his pale neck. For a moment Shiro is struck with an image: a memory, the two of them standing together like they do now, Keith at Shiro's side, staring up at the shuttle he was soon to pilot to Kerberos. The breeze had toyed with Keith's hair then, too. Shiro remembers thinking it was due for a trim – remembers idly wondering whether Keith would forget to get it done without Shiro there to remind him, remembers the clench of fondness that followed when Keith tucked a wayward strand behind his ear. Strange, that he'd been more preoccupied with that than with the dangerous journey ahead of him. Such mundane, inconsequential concerns.

 

Shiro had known even then he was going to miss Keith terribly while he was gone. He just hadn't _known_.

 

So much has changed since then. Shiro has changed. And Keith... Keith has grown so much. He's grown into himself, into all the potential Shiro knew was there, waiting to be uncovered. He's found his strength, found his focus; has carried himself with understated, enviable self-assurance ever since he came back from the quantum abyss, taller and broader and so brave and staggeringly beautiful–

 

Shiro couldn't be more proud.

 

Keith lets out a quiet sigh. “Alright, I think I'm good now.” He strides forwards a few steps, wobbles – “whoa” – and Shiro's already there, reaching forward to steady him as Keith reaches back. “Heh, thanks. Guess all that lying around has made my muscles lazy.”

 

“You're still recovering," Shiro reminds him. “You'll get your strength back soon enough.” He wraps his left arm around Keith's waist and tucks him securely against his side, ignoring the thump of his heart when Keith's arm settles across his shoulders. “Though I've been instructed I'm not allowed to let you in a training ring for at least another week. Light exercise only.”

 

Keith snorts. “People know you're not my handler, right? It's almost as if no one's realizedto be cheering me on than holding me back.”

 

“Maybe so, in different circumstances.” Shiro tries a smile, but it drains off his face like water as soon as his eyes meet Keith's. “You... you were seriously hurt, Keith. I know you're tough and I'm not about to tell you what you can and can't do, but please don't push yourself too hard.”

 

Keith's eyes are wide, endlessly dark under the orange lights of the courtyard. "No, I know. I won't.”

 

“..Thank you.”

 

Keith squeezes his shoulder. “So. Where're we headed?”

 

Shiro coughs around the lump in his throat. “Iverson's offered you a room in the Garrison dorms," he says, "or your mother mentioned there was space for you to stay with her and Kolivan, if you'd prefer. Oh, and there's quarters for you on the Atlas, of course.”

 

“That's where you're staying. The Atlas.”

 

“Me, and Allura, Coran and Romelle. The other Paladins understandably wanted to be with their families.” Shiro shrugs a shoulder. “So. It's up to you.”

 

Keith nods. “The Atlas, then.” He says it so decisively Shiro has to take a second to catch up.

 

“..Okay. You sure? The dorms are closer.”

 

Keith's eyes skitter away before flicking back to Shiro. “Well, if we're gonna be using the Atlas as a base, it makes sense to move in now, right?”

 

“Right, yeah, of course,” Shiro hastens to confirm, “it's just more of a walk.”

 

“I can handle it. Light exercise, yeah?” Keith pats Shiro's hand on his hip. “Besides, you're here. I think you can keep me on my feet.” He smiles up at him, casual and devastating, and Shiro has to swallow the confessions that pool on his tongue, threatening to overspill. “Come on. Lead the way, Captain.”

 

At Keith's insistence they take the long way, around the Garrison buildings rather than through. With Earth slowly starting to rebuild there's a steady flow of traffic between the Garrison and the refugee camps on the outskirts of the city, and in the traffic's wake has cropped up a market of sorts, sellers hawking their wares at all hours of the day and night. As they draw close, the breeze starts to carry the unmistakeable and mouthwatering scent of edible things being fried.

 

On cue, saliva floods Shiro's mouth. He swallows, licks his lips, and is just about to suggest a detour when Keith stops, head drawn in the direction of the stalls like a Pavlovian response. His eyebrows fold down into the crinkles across his nose when he sniffs. Shiro watches as he opens his mouth, pauses; it's so easy to read his deliberation, weighing up his desire versus how much extra trouble he thinks it would cause Shiro. An impulse not to be inconvenient that Keith has had as long as Shiro's known him.

 

Shiro beats him to it before the anxiety can set in and do any harm.

 

"You hungry?”

 

Keith's shoulders shift under Shiro's arm. “I'm fine.”

 

“Yeah? Well I'm not. I haven't had a bite to eat since lunch, and that was seven hours ago.” He steers them in the direction of the food stalls before Keith can come up with an excuse to dig his heels in. “Come on. Matt was telling me about this cross-Coalition-cultures take on pizza I've apparently got to try. Let's stop by and check it out.”

 

*

 

They find the 'pizza' place easily enough. The proprietor is a lavender blue Unilu who seems a little starstruck and shy to have two famous _'defenders of the universe'_ turn up at her shop without warning, but she takes it in stride and quickly gets them settled on stools around the corner of the high counter, out of the way enough that the other patrons of the market won't bother them.

 

Shiro can't remember the last time he went out like this, just for the pleasure of enjoying good company and good food. And the food _is_ good, even if some of the flavor combinations are a bit odd to his palate. The company? Well, that goes without saying. Keith makes fun when Shiro manages to drop a string of mozzarella down his t-shirt, but there were two weeks of terrible silence where Shiro thought he might never hear his voice again. He could be cursing Shiro out and Shiro would still be unbearably glad just to hear him.

 

(And, he thinks, maybe, Keith's gaze might linger on Shiro's chest when he dabs off the grease with a napkin. Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking.)

 

They fall into the habit of swapping toppings like it's five years ago. Keith offers Shiro a slice of the crunchy, spotted-pink vegetable on his pizza – “It's sweet, kinda like butternut squash, you'll like it,” – but wrinkles his nose in disgust when Shiro offers him some of his pineapple in return. “Uh, no. Gross.”

 

“Come on, it's been years!” Shiro weedles, chuckling when Keith bats his hand away. “You might like it now. Never know until you try it.”

 

“Doesn't matter how long it's been. Shiro, you know I trust you with my life, but pineapple on pizza is _wrong_ and you should get help.” With this declaration Keith stuffs the rest of his slice into his mouth, making his cheeks puff out like a hamster's. A drop of rich purple sauce smears on his chin.

 

Their knees are pressed together under the surface of the bar. Have been since they sat down, and neither of them has shifted away. It would be so easy for Shiro to reach across and wipe the drop of sauce from Keith's skin. To let his palm linger there after, to cup Keith's sharp jaw and bring him close, to take the taste of his meal from his lips.

 

Shiro can't pinpoint when or where his feelings changed. It's been a gradual process, the inevitable result of years being slowly pulled in by Keith's gravity. All he knows is that somewhere out there, sometime between his tumultuous crash-landing on Earth, forming Voltron, fighting Zarkon, dying and being held inside Black and being cloned and being _found_ , and all else that happened in between... Somewhere in all that chaos, Shiro fell in love. Now, when the two of them are alone, it's all he can think about. He wonders what that black-haired, smiling boy worried about Keith's haircut would think, if he were transported into the future to sit on the next stool over. Would he recognize the man he'd become, grey-haired and scarred? Would he be surprised at the depth of what Shiro feels now? At the direction his thoughts take whenever Keith is close? It seems so natural to Shiro now he can hardly imagine a reality where he wouldn't feel this way about Keith, but he knows the thought had never even crossed his mind before Kerberos. But maybe his younger self _would_ understand – after all, Shiro's feelings may have changed, but the friendship that nurtures them has been there from the start.

 

Shiro doesn't realize he's staring until Keith looks up again and catches him at it.

 

He pauses, finishes chewing and swallows. “What?”

 

“Oh, uh, nothing.” Shiro's cheeks feel warm. “Just... thinking how good it is to have you back.”

 

Keith leans into him, warm even through the layers of their jackets. “It's good to be back.”

 

Shiro gives in and wipes the bit of sauce away with the pad of his thumb.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Keith's devoured his pizza – his own as well as a generous portion of Shiro's, minus the pineapple – his legs are feeling a lot less weak and more reliable under him. He decides it's not worth mentioning when Shiro steps in close again to help him walk.

 

Keith had been disappointed at first when some bureaucratic but time-sensitive Blade business meant his mom couldn't be there to see him out from hospital, but it's also meant he and Shiro have had the whole evening to themselves. There's a feeling burning sweetly in the space between Keith's lungs, a little ember of surety that only grows brighter with the warmth of Shiro's large hand on his hip, with the softness in Shiro's voice and in his eyes whenever Keith catches him looking.

 

Shiro buying them dinner, the two of them walking close and alone, the safe, solid weight of him against Keith's side... He's not imagining it; there's something here. A feeling, a pull. Keith doesn't think it's just him.

 

Shiro's steps are steady and sure even though he's not watching their feet, instead gazing up at the night sky. There's too much light pollution on the Garrison compound to see the stars as clearly as you can further out in the desert, but it's a cloudless night, and Orion's belt is shining bright above their heads.

 

"You miss it, don't you?” Keith asks. Shiro tilts his head down toward him and hums, inquiring. “Being up there.”

 

Shiro's smile is thin. “It seems absurd, doesn't it?” He lifts his head back to the stars. “After everything that happened to me out there, you'd think...”

 

“It's not absurd.”

 

Shiro snorts gently. “You might be the only one who'd say so.”

 

“Mm, maybe.” Keith slides his hand up Shiro's spine to his shoulder, thumb coming to rest on the bare skin above his collar. It's warm. He can feel a faint flutter of Shiro's pulse. “But that's 'cause I understand, you know? I miss it too. Even though there's still a war waiting for us, I can't wait to go back."

 

Shiro peers down at him intently for moment before he slowly grins. “Do you think taking the Black Lion out for a few laps around the planet would count as light exercise?”

 

Keith bursts out laughing. Not so much from the joke itself but the fact Shiro made one at all; because he knows it's only half a joke and Shiro really would love to do just that; because there's a spark of excitement in his eye Keith remembers from joyrides in the desert. It's a relief – Shiro's learning how to find joy in being alive again, and here's the evidence. He hasn't made any jokes about dying in weeks.

 

Keith rides the wave of emotion as it flows through him, then nudges his elbow into Shiro's stomach. “I've only been discharged for an hour and here you are, already trying to get me to break the rules with you,” he teases. “You're a bad influence, Shirogane!”

 

“I never taught you anything you weren't eventually going to try out yourself anyway,” Shiro protests, laughing. “I just showed you how to do things without getting hurt.”

 

“And without getting caught, you mean.”

 

“I-” Shiro attempts to straighten his face. Doesn't work. He's smiling too much. “I plead the fifth.”

 

They've drawn closer while laughing, curved in toward each other until half of Keith's chest is pressed against Shiro's. His prosthetic hand has joined its counterpoint on Keith's other hip, equally warm and thrumming with its own kind of life. The embers spark around Keith's heart as Shiro falls quiet, and still.

 

Keith looks up.

 

There's a part of him he used to wear close as skin but is now buried deep, a part of heavy armoured scales and fleet of foot. Its instinct is to run. To turn away and hide from the hope before it inevitably abandons him.

 

He ignores it. This is Shiro. Whatever happens, there's no reason to be scared.

 

"Shiro," he murmurs, the sound of it familiar and beloved as it shapes in his throat. “Shiro, I – This isn't just me, is it.”

 

Shiro's throat bobs and clicks. “What isn't just you?”

 

“Come on, you've got to know.” He pulls back only slightly but Shiro's hands tighten instantly on his hips, almost panicked.

 

“There are things I've... suspected,” he says in a rush. “Hoped. But I never wanted to presume or – or push, or make you feel pressured in any way.” He licks his lip. “And I was afraid to be wrong.”

 

“And if I told you you're right?”

 

“I-” Shiro gapes, stutters over his words. His flesh hand shakes. “Keith, I...”

 

Keith claws his fingers in the front of Shiro's jacket. “Shiro,” he breathes. “Kiss me.”

 

He means to be confident, to be sure, but despite himself the words lift at the end like a question, a lingering spiderthread of old insecurity. It's swept away with the touch of Shiro's hand to his chin. Long, careful fingers that cradle his jaw like something precious. Their noses bump, brush; the tip of Shiro's nose presses cool into his cheek.

 

His lips are warm.

 

Such a small moment: a simple touch, a connection, the bow of Keith's upper lip tucked between Shiro's; then a soft, shaking breath as they part.

 

Keith's eyes slip open – when had they closed? – and he finds Shiro's are closed still, so close, held for a moment of silent, awestruck peace before Keith's hands slide into his pale starlight hair, and they flutter open.

 

Everything is the same. The same empty road to the hangar, the orange lights and purple shadows, the crickets, the same dust-coated concrete beneath their feet – yet, between one heartbeat and the next, something cosmic has clicked into place.

 

The smile blooms wide across Keith's lips. “So this is happening? We're actually doing this?”

 

An airless laugh scrapes from Shiro's chest. “I guess so.”

 

“Good.” Keith's fingers tighten in his hair, guide him down close until they're touching again. “I'm glad.”

  
*

 

Sneaking on to the Atlas makes Keith feel like a cadet again, giddy from a successful mission out to the simulators after curfew. Not that they sneak on, exactly – Shiro is the Atlas' captain, and Keith the leader of Voltron; they can pretty much come and go as they please – but Shiro seems determined to take them on the quietest route through the ship, most devoid of other people. Maybe it's just the effervescent happiness bubbling in Keith's veins that's making him feel this way, like only Shiro's hand in his is keeping him from floating off into the stratosphere.

 

Keith has never set foot on the Atlas since it was powered up, but he feels immediately sense of belonging nonetheless: the same kind of unconditional welcome as a handshake, a promise, a hand on his shoulder. Keith smiles at the curious whisper of touch that brushes the surface of his mind as Shiro shows him to the suites that will become the Paladins' quarters. It's no wonder, really; the Atlas feels like the man who awoke her soul.

 

Apparently Krolia's already dropped by his room. The Marmora blade they share is on the bedside table, Keith's Paladin armour hangs beside the door, and there's a couple of other bits and pieces he'd left in the Black Lion sitting on the desk waiting for him to sort through. The room itself isn't much different from his old room on the Castle of Lions, except for its Earth design – and, Shiro points out with a knowing smile, it has the luxury of its own adjacent shower room. No more shared facilities.

 

Keith drops his bag of his stuff from the hospital on the floor and makes a beeline straight for the shower, suddenly acutely aware of the fact he hasn't had more than a sponge bath in the better part of three weeks. His hair is disgusting, lank and heavy with grease, and the rest of him doesn't feel much better.

 

He grins stupidly at the small shower cubicle.

 

And Shiro still wanted to kiss him like this.

 

“Will you need any help?” Shiro asks, leaning in the bathroom doorway with his arms crossed. Keith's first knee-jerk instinct is to refuse, but he knows how sore his arms are just from raising them to Shiro's face, how the threat of pain still lingers in his skull, so he agrees, and revels in the soft blush it brings to Shiro's cheeks.

 

Shiro shows him how the shower works then leaves him to strip down while he goes to change out of his uniform. He comes back a couple minutes later when Keith is just stepping under the spray, dressed in soft cotton workout clothes.

 

For a moment they both stare at each other – Keith at the defined heft of muscle barely concealed by Shiro's t-shirt, the breadth of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist. In casual clothes he looks young, like the man in his midtwenties he truly is and not some legendary hero, untouchable and unreachable and alone.

 

Shiro's probably just staring, jaw slack, because Keith's wet and naked. His eyes dart over Keith before retreating determinedly to his face and staying there. He mutters an apology.

 

Keith smiles, feeling a strange mix of both shy and empowered by the weight of Shiro's gaze on him. “It's okay,” he says. “I don't mind you looking.”

 

Shiro works his jaw. “..Alright,” he says, voice tight. “Noted.”

 

Keith takes mercy on him and turns to face the wall, giving Shiro room to step into the cubicle behind him – which he does fully clothed. He's going to get soaked, but Keith bites his lip and hands Shiro the shampoo without comment.

 

Shiro works the shampoo into a lather and sets his hands gently against the crown of Keith's head. “Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs.

 

“I will.”

 

He massages in the soap with slow, careful circles, burying deeper into Keith's hair with each stroke. It's so relaxing Keith could fall asleep were it not for the occasional pinch or tug of a knot or dried clump of dirt. Traces of rusted brown trickle in the water swirling down the drain.

 

Shiro apologizes as a particularly sharp tug makes Keith wince. “Krolia tried to wash your hair while you were asleep,” he says, barely loud enough to hear over the jet of the water, “but it wasn't really possible; we couldn't move your head around or risk getting your bandages wet. There's still a bit of blood matted in the back here. I'll try to be gentle.”

 

Keith reaches back to stroke his side. “It's okay, Shiro. It feels good.”

 

When he's satisfied with the job he's done Shiro helps rinse Keith's hair through, hand held to Keith's brow to stop the water running into his eyes. Keith wants to kiss him again but Shiro excuses himself so quickly he doesn't get the chance, so he finishes scrubbing down his body, mopes under the hot spray for another minute, then gets out and pats himself dry.He wraps the towel around his hips, a funny twisting feeling in his gut as he wonders if he'll open bathroom door to find himself alone.

 

But there Shiro is, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Keith pads into the bedroom and crosses his arms over his chest.

 

"..Hey."

 

Shiro's back rises and falls with a sigh. He looks up. "Hey."

 

The twisting feeling churns. “What's wrong?”

 

“It's nothing.” Shiro gets to his feet and hovers a moment. “You need rest. I should... probably go.”

 

“Is that what you want?” Keith blurts. When Shiro stops, he reaches out and catches Shiro's prosthetic with both hands. “Shiro, please. Tell me what you want.”

 

Shiro looks down at their joined hands. He twines their fingers together. “I want – Keith, if you-”

 

“I want you here,” Keith tells him. “We don't have to do anything right now but I want this. I want you, Shiro.”

 

“God, Keith.” Shiro's eyes burn like dark amber in the light. He looks stunned like he did when Keith killed Sendak, equal parts amazement and disbelief, and a part amused acknowledgment, like somehow he's not actually surprised at all. “You'd think I'd be used to you astonishing me, but I still can't wrap my head around the fact this is really happening.”

 

“It's about time, don't you think?” Keith quirks a smile. He squeezes Shiro's fingers. “But if this is too much we can slow down.”

 

“No. No, it's not too much.” Shiro steps closer, touches his free palm to the small of Keith's back, just above the edge of the towel. His fingers send sparks skittering up Keith's spine, sparks which fan into a flame when Shiro bends down and captures his lips.

 

They kiss slow. Keith runs his hands up Shiro's arms, over his shoulders; kneads his chest and scrapes his nails down the twitching muscle of Shiro's stomach. When his wet hair drips into his face enough to start annoying him he nudges Shiro back, unwraps his towel and roughly scrubs his hair dry, then lets the towel fall to the floor. Shiro lets out a strangled exhale before Keith's pulling him right back in for the kiss, taking Shiro's hands and putting them on his body.

 

Shiro's touch is reverent. He runs his hands all over Keith's back, over his arms, a gentle squeeze of his ass. He traces a line down Keith's spine that makes him shiver, then wraps both hands around Keith's waist. Their span is almost wide enough for his fingers to touch.

 

Keith tucks his fingers under the hem of Shiro's damp t-shirt. “You got your clothes all wet,” he says against Shiro's lips. “You didn't have to wear them in the shower, you know. It's not like I'd mind.”

 

Shiro huffs. “I know. I'm not sure what I was thinking.”

 

“You can take it off if you want,” says Keith. “I might have something you can put on instead.”

 

Shiro hums doubtfully. “Don't worry about it. I will take this off though, if that's fine. It's not exactly comfortable.”

 

Keith's mouth goes dry. “Sure,” he hears himself say. “Knock yourself out.”

 

Shiro tugs off his t-shirt one-handed, folds it quickly and drops it next to the towel. He does the same with his sweatpants and underwear, uses his toes to nudge the little pile of clothes nearer the wall where it's out of the way, takes a breath, then turns to face Keith, tension held tight in the hinge of his jaw.

 

Keith knew he had scars, but knowing is a very different thing from seeing them all at once. There's so much more to Shiro's body than his pain, though, so Keith breathes around his anger and sets it aside.

 

“Did you still want...” Shiro starts.

 

He trails off, but his meaning is clear in his sudden hesitance, the stillness with which he holds himself.

 

Keith doesn't know why he's asking. “Yeah, I want. Why wouldn't I?”

 

Shiro's stillness melts away. “No, of course. Why wouldn't you.” He steps in close, cradles Keith's hips in his large hands. His eyes wrinkle at the corners, narrowed in happy, grateful curves – though Keith doesn't get why, or what it is he's said to make Shiro look at him like that.

 

He must make a face, because Shiro chuckles, reaches up and smoothes the furrow between Keith's brows. He shakes his head, murmurs, “Oh, Keith,” in that quiet, wondering way.

 

“What?”

 

Shiro just shakes his head again. He pulls Keith into a hug, pressed together skin-to-skin, strokes his hand down Keith's cheek to cup his jaw, and kisses him.

 

With a mental shrug Keith lets it go. He wraps his arms around Shiro's neck and kisses back. Let Shiro have his little secret thoughts. As long as he's happy, that's good enough for Keith.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro's spent most of his life racing against himself. Always pushing, always striving, always testing his limits and reaching beyond. There was no time to stop, not if he wanted to achieve even a fraction of what he knew he was capable of. If he stopped, he may never have found the momentum to get going again.

 

He chased himself right into the arms of intergalactic war.

 

It spat him out chewed up. Changed. Older and battered and hurt. But now...

 

Kissing Keith, he's discovering, is a fantastic cure for stress. Every little problem that's been gnawing at him, each tiny anxiety, the shiver of sinking dread whenever he thinks too much about all the lives who have pledged their trust in him, who are under his command, who he is going to have to lead into a war the scale of which some of them could barely comprehend--

 

Under the slide of Keith's lips it all loses weight, and floats away.

 

If he wasn't so happily preoccupied he'd laugh at himself. Why was he so scared? This is _Keith_.

 

There's no need for him to fear the rest, either. It's easier to remember with Keith's arms wrapped around him, Keith's weight pressing him down into the bed. The crew of the Atlas are all people who have chosen to fight with him. They're going to be Shiro's team, and he may no longer fly a Lion but Voltron will always be his team, too – and Keith will be right here, by his side.

 

Keith's always made him feel like he could do anything. He can't wait to see what more they can accomplish together.

 

The drag of Keith's body above him sends sparks through his blood. Keith shifts to kiss his chin, his jaw, the corner of his mouth; quick, chaste presses on his forehead, each eyelid, the jagged skin across the bridge of his nose.

 

“Still with me?” he asks.

 

Shiro's lungs feel full. He breathes out. “I'm with you. Keith.” He holds Keith's face between his palms and repays the favor, laying kisses over as much of it as he can reach. “Keith, he says, for the pure joy and pleasure in saying it; and again, “Keith, _Keith_ ,” because he loves the way the sound tastes, the way it curls as it travels down his tongue; the breathy click of the _K_ at the back of his mouth, the embrace of the vowels against his palate, the soft touch of tongue-tip to teeth that ends it.

 

Keith's laugh spills against his lips. “Yeah, that's my name. What's up?”

 

“Nothing, it's just a good name. I like it. I like saying it.” Shiro bites softly at Keith's earlobe. “ _Keith._ ”

 

Keith shudders in his arms. He dislodges Shiro's fingers from his hair and reclaims his lips with a new surge of passion, stealing the noise Shiro makes with a clever sweep of his tongue.

 

Shiro's dimly aware of the heat building in his belly, but it's background; more immediately overwhelming is Keith, Keith, taking him by surprise as he always has. Those are Keith's long limbs tucked along his; Keith's skin, warm and slicking with sweat where they're pressed together; Keith hard and hot; Keith's breath on his cheek, Keith's noises, Keith's beloved face–  
He grins, panting, when he notices Shiro staring, and brings their foreheads together. “Shiro,” he says, and that's it.

 

Shiro stutters a surprised noise, tenses, and spills between them.

 

He swims back to himself to find Keith propped up on his hands over him, eyes blown wide.

 

“Did you...”

 

Shiro groans and throws his arm over his face.

 

“That was fast.”

 

“Sorry.” Shiro laughs ruefully. “Sorry, it's – been a while. Or never, maybe? I guess I'm kinda sensitive.”

 

“You don't need to apologize, Shiro, your body just isn't used to this. It's pretty flattering to be honest.” Keith brushes Shiro's hair from his forehead. “Besides, isn't the whole point of this to make you feel good?”

 

“It's meant to be good for us both,” Shiro says.

 

“Then we're doing it right, so far as I'm concerned.” Keith's weight shifts as he sits up. Amusement has his eyes dancing, but it's tempered with affection. He tugs at Shiro's hand and pulls it down to his lap. “D'you think you can come again?”

 

Thick heat still thrums low in Shiro's abdomen. “With you?” he says on a breathless laugh. “Yeah, pretty sure.”

 

Keith smiles. Shiro shivers when he lightly circles the wet tip of his cock, strokes his fingers through the mess on Shiro's stomach, smearing it into the crease of his abs.

 

“God, Shiro,” he whispers, transfixed, “I can't believe I'm so lucky. You're so fucking beautiful.”

 

He says it so intense and sincere Shiro flushes hot, lets out a wobbly laugh. “I should be saying that of you,” he says, and it's true – Keith is a vision, lithe and strong and graceful. Lips kiss-red, his sculpted face framed by thick dark hair; water drips from its damp ends, shining trails that Shiro aches to follow with his tongue down to his gorgeous cock, hard and flushed pink and slick at the tip with want. Shiro runs the backs of his fingers up the underside and palms him, eagerly watches the way Keith's expression crumples, how his eyes darken from slate blue to deep indigo, the color of the sky at night.

 

He wants to taste him. He rolls them over, taking care to support the back of Keith's head and easing him down into the pillow. “Comfy?”

 

Keith rolls his hips up into Shiro's firm stomach and grins. “Pretty great, yeah.”

 

“Head doesn't hurt?”

 

“Nah, I'm fine. What're you planning, big guy?”

 

Shiro kisses his cheek, his lips. “I want to suck you off,” he murmurs in his ear.

 

“Fuck, Shiro-”

 

“Would you like that?”

 

“Oh fuck yes. Shiro, _yes_.”

 

Shiro grins against his skin. Keith tips his head back and Shiro nibbles down the elegant line of his tendons, torn between conflicting desires to make Keith feel as good as possible as soon as possible, or to take his time, to savor this now that he's been granted the opportunity.

 

Keith's heel thumps into his side. “Shiro, come on. You can't say something like that and then leave me hanging.”

 

“What? I'm enjoying myself.” He seals his mouth over Keith's nipple and grazes it lightly with his teeth.

 

Keith shudders out a breathless noise, a laugh wrapped around a moan. He buries his long fingers in Shiro's hair and grips, but doesn't push. Shiro trails down his chest, lips tracing the contours of Keith's musculature, his hands sweeping restlessly up his sides, wishing he could touch it all at once – thigh to hip, belly to chest, and down again. He startles a laugh from Keith when he sucks his bellybutton, a jolt that has his cock bumping up against Shiro's throat.

 

“Shiro,” he pleads. “Don't tease me.”

 

Shiro sends him a scorching look from under his lashes, dips his head, and wraps his lips around him.

 

Keith curses. His thighs tense around Shiro's head, toes curling in the sheets. He's close already, so hard and wet and blood-hot, his pulse beating wild under Shiro's tongue. Shiro sucks, bobs his head and presses down low on Keith's stomach, soaking in the noises he makes, the bitter-salt taste of him.

 

“Shiro,” Keith pants, tugging Shiro's hair. “Shiro, I'm gonna-”

 

Shiro hums and relaxes his throat, breathes, sinks lower. Keith cries out, and the arch of his back is exquisite as he comes.

 

It doesn't seem like it should be possible, but somehow Keith is even more stunning blissed out in post-orgasm ecstasy. Shiro's heart thumps with delight as he watches him recover.

 

“Good?” he asks, when Keith blinks his eyes open. His voice is rough.

 

Keith nods languidly. His hair is a wild mess, drying in a curling halo around him on the pillow. “That... was amazing.”

 

Shiro grins. Yeah, he's still got it. “I'm glad to hear that, but I meant are _you_ good. As in _are you okay_ , before you get smart with me.”

 

“Uh huh, sure you did.” Keith smirks. “Why don't you try me some time, if you're so curious?”

 

He giggles when Shiro rolls his eyes. Shiro eases Keith's legs off his shoulders and clambers back over him to kiss him. Keith happily licks the taste of himself from Shiro's tongue, then pulls back slowly with a hum when Shiro starts to stroke his hair into some kind of neatness.

 

“You like that?” Shiro murmurs.

 

“Mm, yeah. Your hands feel so good.”

 

Shiro pauses. Keith's eyes open to slits when Shiro brushes the backs of his knuckles against the smooth slice seared across Keith's cheek. Keith holds his hand there, kisses the back of Shiro's wrist.

 

A yawn cracks Shiro's jaw. He slumps over, settles at Keith's side with their legs tangled together.

 

Keith kisses the top of his head and nuzzles him. “Getting tired, old-timer?”

 

The old nickname makes Shiro chuff a laugh. “I probably do look old now, with all this gray,” he mumbles into Keith's chest. “It's a wonder anyone recognized me when we came back to Earth.”

 

It comes out more bitter than he intended. Keith pulls back to look at him, not frowning but his eyes soft, perhaps a little sad. “You're pretty memorable, he says quietly. “Anyway, I actually think makes you look younger.” He runs his fingers through the tuft of Shiro's bangs, smoothes the length of one of his eyebrows. “You don't need to worry. It looks good. _You_ look good.”

 

Shiro smiles. “I think you might be biased.”

 

Despite the blush building high on his cheek Keith raises his head, jaw set stubbornly. “Yeah, well, I'm still right. You're beautiful. Your hair's like that because we found you, because you came back to me, because you _survived_ , and I love it. It's like starlight and it's beautiful.”

 

Warmth pricks behind Shiro's eyes. He blinks it away, tucks his head under Keith's chin. “Thank you,” he breathes, when he can trust his voice not to break. “Keith, you don't know how much that means to me.”

 

Keith wraps his arms around him and holds him close.

 

 

* * *

 

 

This is it, Keith decides, the best way he's ever spent a night: trading deep, slow kisses with Shiro, hands in each other's hair, the heat building to a low, rolling simmer between them. Keith's content to leave it at that, but it isn't long before Shiro shifts, restless, his hardness bumping into the valley of Keith's hip.

 

Keith soothes him. He licks his palm and wraps it round him, pulls him off with a firm, twisting grip. Shiro pants, wet sounds slipping from his parted lips, and Keith holds his gaze until Shiro's eyelashes flutter, his brows draw in, and he comes with a weak moan over Keith's stomach.

 

Keith wipes the come out of his bellybutton and licks it off his fingers. He drops a light kiss to Shiro's head. Shiro's lips twitch up in response.

 

“Next time you should do that on my face,” Keith suggests.

 

Shiro's head jerks up. He stares at Keith for a second, wild-eyed, then faceplants on Keith's chest with an emphatic groan.

 

“Fuck, Keith.”

 

Keith laughs. “What? Too much for you to handle?”

 

Shiro whines.

 

Keith pets him apologetically before he rolls them over and clambers off the bed. He wipes himself down brusquely with his damp towel then returns to do the same for Shiro, with much more care, mindful of the sensitivity of his skin. He tosses the towel back in the corner and settles down next to Shiro, sinking into the curve of his body with a content sigh. Shiro's chest is firm underneath and soft on top, the perfect pillow. Even better when he rests his hands on him, one resting at the nape of Keith's neck, the other on his hip, thumb rubbing absent-mindedly over the jut of the bone.

 

They lie in blissful silence for a few minutes before Keith sighs. “Mom wanted to call me Yorak,” he says casually.

 

Shiro's thumb pauses. He lifts his head, cranes his neck to blink down at Keith. “I'm sorry?”

 

“Yorak.” Silence. Shiro's face is blank. Keith snickers. “I know, right? It's okay, Shiro, you don't have to be diplomatic about it. It's only us here.”

 

Shiro's mouth opens, shuts. “I have nothing but admiration and respect for your mother...” he hedges.

 

“Uh-huh, sure. Go on.”

 

“..You don't look much like a Yorak.”

 

Keith snorts. “Let me guess, you prefer Keith.”

 

“I really do,” Shiro says, serious and heart-meltingly soft.

 

Keith hides his face in Shiro's armpit. “Such a sap,” he mumbles, and Shiro's chest shakes under his cheek with his low laugh.

 

When they've both calmed Keith props his chin on Shiro's pec. “So, what happens now?” he asks. “Where do we go from here?”

 

Shiro hums, considering. “Well, we care for each other. That's what's important. So we don't have to put a label on it, if you'd rather not.”

 

“Hm, true.” Keith watches his profile, trying to read between the lines, what he could be holding back in the silence between the words he chose to say.

 

It's simple, in the end. Keith nudges him. “Hey, Shiro. you know you're my best friend.”

 

Shiro's eyes crinkle with his smile. “Yes, I know.”

 

“You wanna be my boyfriend, too?”

 

A beat, then the crinkles deepen. Shiro chuckles and pulls him in tighter. “To be honest, Keith, it wouldn't surprise me if a lot of people already think I am,” he says, low and reverberating under Keith's cheek.

 

Keith shrugs this off. “Maybe, but I don't care about them. I care what _you_ think.”

 

Shiro brushes his hair back and presses a kiss to his forehead, then another that lingers. A slow exhale ruffles Keith's hair.

 

“I'd like that,” he whispers.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes.” A wobbling breath. “Very much.”

 

“Okay, yeah. Good.” Keith can't press any closer, but he tries. He clears his throat. “Same.”

 

Under his head Shiro's chest starts to shake again. His lips tighten on Keith's forehead, air puffing rhythmically through his hair. A little alarmed Keith looks up, but Shiro's only laughing again.

 

Keith rolls on top of him. “What's so funny?”

 

Shiro's long lashes are damp but his eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed with happiness. “We're so bad at this.”

 

“I dunno. We've gotten this far.”

 

“Mm, I guess you're right.”

 

“I am.”

 

Shiro smiles. He strokes from Keith's shoulder up his neck, thumbs the corner of his jaw. “Hey, Keith, I think it's time I told you something.”

 

Keith leans into his hand. “I'm listening.”

 

For a moment Shiro stays quiet. He watches his thumb rub circles into the scar on Keith's cheek, before his eyes flick up to meet Keith's.

 

“I love you too.”

 

Keith's breath catches on the swell of lightness in his chest. He has to swallow around it. “Yeah, I know,” he croaks.

 

Shiro's lips twitch. “..Did you just Han Solo me?”

 

Keith freezes. “Wh- No! Well, yes, technically, but – it's true! I do know!”

 

Shiro bursts out laughing. “I can't believe you Han Solo'd me!”

 

“I didn't mean to, it was an accident!” Keith grumbles. He pokes Shiro in the stomach. “I thought you had a thing for Han Solo anyway.”

 

“As a _kid_ , maybe.”

 

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Make me.”

 

Shiro digs his fingers in and tickles him. Keith yells and grabs a pillow to fight him off. For a moment it feels like the old days, before Kerberos, before everything – only this is _better_ , because for all the hardship they've endured they've _survived._ Because they've grown stronger, they know each other better than ever, and they're forging their own new path. Because they're naked together and there's nothing more for either of them to hide. Because Shiro is laughing as he lets Keith pin him down, he's relaxed and happy, bright and alive and so _loved_ , and Keith wants nothing more in all of time and space than to kiss him.

 

So he does.

 

 

 


End file.
